Performed by Val Cole
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POEM:
Apologies/what we owe the uni(verse)
Awake, the door elucidates the shape
Of her body, limbs stretched between this privacy
of her mind, which asks What we owe the verse
And If the universe owes us for existence?
Asleep, the blinds snore in the wind
Where the attic waits a city, obsolete
Of boats rattling over the timid bay shore
Windows to my heart I keep opening
Faithfully, like our laughlines even matter
Over or mind- i do, deep souldiering sleets
Like there are ever answers within
The heat
Of a house embroiled in the sin of winter,
Of getting old, of benign clumsy at the task
Of getting old, of maturation, of old leaves,
Molding, burning in winter, with a song in their
Soul,
We’re not dead yet. We’re not yet dying
We’re still learning what we owe the universe
And what the verse owes us when we write
The book of our longings
The sin of our souring, the decent slip and syntax of the sea
As it stretches between each hour of sleeping and waking
As, in song, we slip into
dreams
Crime/Mystery Film & Writing Festival 